HD 'Bump & Grind' 10 in 13 Nights
by tigersilver
Summary: AU; EWE. Please blame this insanity on the wonderful digitallace, author of 'Gentleman Pervert', and forgive my illogical extension of theme and resultant crack!infusion. This is a tribute to her Werewolf!Draco.


**Title:** Bump and Grind  
**Author:** **tigersilver**  
**Characters:** Harry/Draco  
**Rating:** R  
**Warning(s):** Frotting, snogging, Mate claiming and hairy innuendo. Disturbed pleats.  
**Word Count:** 1,810

**Prompt: ** **hd_seasons** – 13 Nights of Smut, Prompt #10 (werewolves; tickle)

**Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Summary:** Please blame this insanity on the wonderful digitallace, author of 'Gentleman Pervert', and forgive my illogical extension of theme and resultant crack!infusion. Real smut tomorrow, I promise. [Find digitallace here / or here .net/s/5748525/1/ ]

"What _is_ this, exactly?" Harry gasped.

"Dancing." Draco admired his own gilt-hued pelt. It was hardly done justice by the elegantly pleated samite toga he wore, but still…not too terribly displeasing, the effect. Harry had seemed to appreciate it, earlier. "Some sort of Muggle country dance, I think. Why?"

"It's just," Harry squirmed in his arms, apparently having some trouble articulating, "it's just that this bed sheet affair isn't very—doesn't quite—my bits feel like they're showing!"

"Very nice they are, too," Draco nodded. He swung Harry into a dip, taking full advantage of the greater height his wolf form gave him, and pressed his torso all down the length of Harry's to send a message. _I want you_. His toenails clicked across the parquet; sandals were impractical for paws, he'd discovered. "Your bits. And the bed sheet affair, as you call it, is Charmed to keep those bits of yours covered, silly Chosen One. I'm not having you strut your package before all these arses! That's all mine, Harry, and don't you forget it!"

"I'm not!" Harry shot back, momentarily incensed. "Dolt. Sheesh, I'm only saying it's a little, erm. Airy. Um, ah, shortish—you know, not long enough. Weren't men's togas down to their knees, in Caesar's day? Binns never said."

"No, don't think so," Draco tilted his head and considered. "Don't believe those Roman blokes had a problem with showing off their wares, either, Harry. Think on it," he added, tightening his grip across Harry's narrow waist with a teasing tickle up his ribcage, "it's like men's belt buckles. The bigger they are, the more that's packed behind them? Well, this would be the reverse—the shorter it is, the more there is to show off, right?"

"Barmy!" Harry staggered a bit as Draco twirled him again, furiously, bumping into a scowling duo of Batman and Robin. "Stop! You're making me sea sick, git!"

"Oh?" Draco's brows climbed. "Am I, now?" He glanced about him, perfectly aware he and Harry had gathered the eyes of everyone on the dance floor. Wasn't often one saw a six foot plus blond werewolf in a toga dancing with who was undisguisably 'the' Harry Potter, antique Roman garb, customary laurel wreath and gold-leafed lace-up sandals notwithstanding. Likely would be burnt onto their retinas forever, that image—or so Draco hoped. Especially the Weasel's and Granger's, whose dreary costume party this was. Blast Granger's Muggle upbringing. This was duller than ditchwater and twice as dreary. "How 'bout we have a little break from the monotony, then? There's a lav in the hall that's most convenient."

"Oh no you're _not_, Draco Malfoy!" Harry countered in a furious rush, as Draco spun him to a shuddering stop, and began the somewhat difficult hustle off the packed dance floor. "I am _so _not entering another semi-public loo with you! 'Specially not here, either! This is Ron and Hermione's _home_, Draco! We are _not _shagging in their brand new bathroom!"

A few scandalized glances came their way, but Draco shrugged them off, as only a six foot plus blond werewolf with an outsize ego could.

"Coward," he grinned maliciously. "You know, the nice thing about togas, Harry?" he went on, raising pale brows. "Is that…"

They were now stationed on the very edge of the dancing mob, thanks to Draco's smart footwork, but the eyes of most of the partygoers were still following them avidly. Draco kept his mate busy with a fast two-step in place whilst he assessed the lay of the land from the corner of one narrowed eye. He could see the Ginger Menace over by the rigged-up stage Granger had Charmed, chugging butterbeer with his Gryffindor pals and quite dispirited, from the looks of it, as if he knew what was to come. Weasel wasn't a dullard; he'd have to realize Draco had gotten bored of such simple entertainment. Or rather, the Wolf had, and when the Wolf was bored silly, watch out, Wizarding World!

"They provide easy access. Togas, I meant," Draco grinned wolfishly, continuing the thought, his canines suddenly very pronounced. "To those gorgeous bits of yours, luv," he added with a wink, just for clarity. Harry, looking up at him, visibly shivered.

"You wouldn't, wanker," the Wizarding World's Saviour repeated himself, but his tone was highly doubtful. Harry Potter, of all people, knew for a fucking fact Draco Malfoy _would_.

Had almost gotten them detained in the Ministry's lock up once, Draco's cure for creeping ennui and his general disapprobation of all this in-one's-face public attention Harry continually attracted. It disturbed his inner Wolf's instincts something awful, sharing Harry with the world. Shagging by the horrid new fountain they'd installed in the courtyard was a bit of a public nuisance, yes, but who knew the Aurors had installed FarView spells to keep track of it? And besides, wasn't it sort of fitting, having the Great Ponce himself being rogered speechless at the foot of his own stone trainers? Showed whom owned what, what? _Right, then_.

The Ministry boasted not a smidgen of any sense of the ridiculous, though, and naturally no sympathy for a Werewolf staking his claim. He'd had to apologize before the Wizengamot far too many times to be comfortable, all at Harry's insistence, and it had left a sour taste in Draco's maw. But Weasel and Granger's holiday bash was a far more private venue, despite the presence of the Minister himself, and Draco had to admit he was intrigued. The possibilities were endless.

Just how far could one go to demonstrate a mating Bond in public, anyway? Because he very definitely wasn't liking Romilda Vane's eyes on Harry's arse, nor that twat Creevey's, for that matter. Nor any of those costumed Wizards and Witches who had their various hungry faces gaping and gazes glued to his Harry's bared thighs. Perverts, the lot of them, and Draco didn't like that at all, all jests aside.

"I think," he announced abruptly, sweeping a startled Harry right off his feet, "it's more than time to make a few simple items clear. Come along, Harry dear."

"Er?"Harry, not expecting to lose his footing, kicked his sandals in the air frantically. "What the bloody buggering fuck, Draco? Put me down this instant!"

"Oh, no," Draco replied airily. "We've a message to send, Harry, and it should be in an appropriate venue for proper dissemination. There's a Muggle piano over there in the corner. That'll do nicely for a little show of our own, if you don't care for the loo."

"No!" Harry howled, and began to struggle in earnest, limbs flying everywhere. "Draco! Draco, you _can't_! You're bloody mental! Kingsley's here, for Merlin's sake! I'll lose my post!"

"So?" Draco, long furry legs in sinuous motion, stalked his way 'round the edge of the dance floor, the squirming crowd giving way when they caught a glimpse of his fiery eyes. A werewolf's eyes were very…persuasive, he'd discovered. People rather wanted to do what they could to divert that burning glance from their collective throats. Nice perk, really. "And your point is?"

"No!" Harry Potter was adamant. So sincerely so, apparently, he Disapparated right out of Draco's grip, appearing a few feet away, with his ever-present wand in hand. "Abso-fucking-lutely NOT, Draco!"

"But you're mine," Draco halted, and fixed Harry (who'd pay for that little trick later, by Salazar!) with a beseeching gaze. "And I'm tired of all this—" he waved a taloned paw round at the little glowing pumpkin party lights strung across the dance floor, the to-be-expected bowls of grubby candy corn, the boring-as-bat guano group of same old, same old costumes: Cleopatra and Queen Elizabeth I, Superman and the Joker, Dumbledore, Morgana Le Fay and the Spice Girls. All that lot, done up in cheap rented finery and stupid plastic Muggle accessories. "And they're _poaching_, Harry. I can't have that."

"Draco, you nutter, no one's going to take me away from you." Harry replied sensibly. "But I'm not about to let you prove it to them by shagging me across Ron and Hermione's Steinway, either. Come on. Let's go home, alright? You can shag me there to your heart's content, you furry bugger."

Draco considered, toenails on one furry foot tapping. It was a solution, yes. Harry's toga was doing good things to his cock. In fact, he'd had to Charm the front of his own garb to ensure the pleats stayed pleated flat. But…

"And the little matter of whose mate you are, Harry? What shall I do to make that clear, take out an advert in the _Prophet_?"

"No…no," Harry drawled, and took a few tentative steps closer, tucking his wand away. Gingerly, carefully, he grasped Draco's perked up ears and tugged at them, till he had Draco's elongated snout at eye level. "Transform for a sec, will you? But not quite all the way, please. Leave that pelt of yours, love. It's sexy as sin."

Draco, blinking his bemusement, did so, and there in the place of the full-blown Wolf was the familiar form of Draco Malfoy, rich Wizarding playboy—'cept _not_. No one who knew either he or Harry—or perused the rags—doubted that his playboy days were long over. It was only Harry for him, and though the fact was rue-worthy, it was fact. And Harry Potter didn't deny it.

Harry laid on the first kiss like icing on a warm cupcake. Carefully, precisely, with a smile tacked on for decoration. Draco parted his fully human lips. It tickled, the touch. Fair gave _him_ the shivers. The second was deeper—all tongue now, thrusting—and Draco gulped and bent into it with a will.

The third snog produced some shocked giggling from the mob, as Draco bent Harry backward once more, over his arm. There wasn't a molecule's space left between them, and their bare legs had already entangled, hips humping slowly. Draco's chest rumbled into a pleased growl.

The fourth was open-mouthed and trailing saliva, so that Draco's stubbly chin dripped with it, and the snog itself was a slobbery, slippery explosion. His cock and Harry's bumped and ground together through the folds of pristine white fabric they both wore and all the Charms in the world wouldn't save Draco's beloved pleats now.

The fifth was the kicker. They turned in the midst of it, of one mind, and nearly one body, for that snog was almost full penetration and Draco howled triumphantly round the edges of it. The crowd shuddered at the eldritch sound of a Wolf's mating call.

Harry was his.

His.

And the sixth and all the rest after were displayed in the privacy of their own flat, much to the relief of Ron and Hermione and the stunning disappointment of Vane and Creevey and the other partygoers, who'd been getting off vicariously.

Poor sods.

**Fin**


End file.
